


Applied Theory

by splitseconddecision



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Drabble, Established Relationship, Football, Gen, Soccer Moms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 16:31:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1948191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/splitseconddecision/pseuds/splitseconddecision
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hamish Watson-Holmes is about to play in his first football match. Sherlock doesn't see the point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Applied Theory

**Author's Note:**

> Someone mentioned OTPs and soccer moms on tumblr. My imagination ran away with me, a bit.

The jersey fit perfectly, but John fussed with it anyway, tugging the hemline down and smoothing the wrinkles. Hamish blinked owlishly at him, and then batted his hands away.

  
“Dad, it's fine!” John sighed, and brushed some imaginary dust from Hamish's shoulder, before restraining himself in a parade rest.

  
“It's football, John,” Sherlock said from his lavish position on the sofa, “it's hardly life-and-death.” Hamish looked as if he would like to disagree with that assessment, but as Sherlock was on his side on this particular issue, he let it slide.

  
“I know that,” John huffed, “but it's his first match! It's special.” Sherlock glanced up from his mobile briefly to give John a dark look. Sherlock had never placed a high value on firsts. Or anniversaries. Or public holidays. Hamish frowned, a thought occurring to him suddenly.

  
“Papa?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows, but didn't look over. “Papa, you are coming, aren't you? To watch me play?”

  
“Ugh, _spectating_ – tedious. A worse waste of time than even playing spo-” Sherlock cut himself off abruptly, having looked up to catch the crestfallen expression on Hamish's face and the absolutely monstrous one on John's. He cleared his throat nervously. “Ah. Yes. Except for football, of course. Fascinating stuff. With the, ah – frontwards? And the... moppers.”

  
“You deleted football,” John said flatly, and closed his eyes, muttering something about “sweepers.” Hamish looked dubious, but slightly mollified.

  
“Well, it's hardly vital to the Work, John!” Sherlock snapped, before swallowing and turning to his son. “Of course I'm coming, Hamish. I wouldn't miss something so important to you, even if it is a waste of time.”

  
“It's not, though. A waste of time, I mean. It's _tactics_ ,” Hamish said reverently. Sherlock stared at him for a moment, before making a non-committal sound and returning to his mobile, fingers flying.

  
“Uncle Greg and Aunt Molly are coming, too,” John said casually, watching Hamish out of the corner of his eye. He grinned smugly when Hamish lit up.

  
“Your taxi is here, dears!” Mrs. Hudson called from downstairs. Hamish bolted down to the ground floor, chattering excitedly at Mrs. Hudson. John and Sherlock followed at a more sedate pace, with Sherlock frowning speculatively at his mobile.  
The family piled into the back of the taxi, with Hamish bouncing in the middle seat and John and Sherlock on either side.

  
“What are you looking at?” John asked Sherlock, once they were well on their way to the pitch. “You haven't got a case, Greg's taken a holiday.” Sherlock looked up from his mobile to stare into space for a moment, eyes darting around to track invisible movements.

  
“ _Fascinating_.” Seeing that he was not going to get a response while Sherlock was so absorbed, John exhaled gustily and took to chatting with Hamish about how unfair it was that his football coach never let him play forward.

  
Sherlock was still tapping away at his mobile when they arrived, completely ignoring Lestrade's greeting and only bending his knees to accept Molly's kiss on the cheek. It wasn't until the shrill whistle sounded to begin the game that he looked up.

  
“Welcome back,” John said wryly, handing him an orange slice from the plastic container Molly had brought. Sherlock accepted it absently, frowning at the pitch, where the gaggle of seven-year-old boys hurtled around haphazardly.

  
“No, no, what is that blithering idiot thinking?” Sherlock hissed. “This is all _wrong_!” John gave him a questioning look, before his attention was drawn back to the pitch as the other team's offence drew close to the goal. Hamish, in defence, rushed forth to boot the football, sending it three-quarters of the way down the field.

  
“Steady on, Hamish!” John called, earning a proud grin from Hamish coupled with a thumbs-up. Sherlock stood abruptly, and stalked down from the risers toward the coach, who was watching the game from the sidelines.

  
“Oh dear,” Molly said, hushed, as Sherlock began laying into the coach, pointing fervently at the pitch. The coach's face purpled as Sherlock continued his tirade, inaudible to the group in the stands.

  
“That absolute _git_ ,” John muttered, dropping his head into his hands. “We're never going to be able to show our faces at one of Hamish's matches again.” Before the coach could explode into a fit of apoplectic rage, Sherlock snatched the clipboard from his hand and began scrawling something on it. He handed the board back to the coach, stabbing at what he had drawn with the pen. The coach scowled at the clipboard, and gave Sherlock a suspicious glare. Sherlock looked on with haughty smugness as the coach caught the referee's eye to call a time out. Hamish's team gathered around the coach at the sidelines, and were sent back to the field in short order, albeit in a completely different formation.

  
Sherlock nodded abruptly and returned to his seat, where John, Lestrade and Molly gaped at him. “Do pay attention,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “You're going to miss Hamish's goal.” True to Sherlock's prediction, the crowd on the risers gave a cheer as Hamish, now playing forward, managed to shoot the football into the upper left corner of the opposing team's goal.

  
It was the first goal of many. Hamish's team ran circles around the others, now organised in a way that allowed each player to take advantage of their natural talents.

  
“But you deleted football,” John said, bewildered, as the teams switched goals at half-time.

  
“I reconsidered its merits this morning, and did some research in the taxi.”

  
“You became a football expert in a twenty-minute cab ride?” Lestrade asked, somewhat aghast at the thought of being outstripped by Sherlock in what was generally Lestrade's and John's domain.

  
“It's a simple application of physics and tactical and strategic theory,” Sherlock said scathingly. “Hardly rocket science. Once you understand the rules and the strengths and weaknesses of the individual players, the correct strategy is obvious.”

  
John and Lestrade shared a despairing glance. Sherlock jumped to his feet and began yelling at the ref.

  
Hamish Watson-Holmes never lost a single football match.


End file.
